blood was present in the shape of
a lady and gentleman just "out from home." Richard got into talk with
this couple, and Mary, watching him fondly, could not but be struck by
his animation. His eyes lit up, he laughed and chatted, made merry
repartee: she was carried back to the time when she had known him
first. In those days his natural gravity was often cut through by a
mood of high spirits, of boyish jollity, which, if only by way of
contrast, rendered him a delightful companion. She grew a little
wistful, as she sat comparing present with past. And loath though she
was to dig deep, for fear of stirring up uncomfortable things, she
could not escape the discovery that, in spite of all his success--and
his career there had surpassed their dearest hopes--in spite of the
natural gifts fortune had showered on him, Richard was not what you
would call a happy man. No, nor even moderately happy. Why this should
be, it went beyond her to say. He had everything he could wish for:
yes, everything, except perhaps a little more time to himself, and
better health. He was not as strong as she would have liked to see him.
Nothing radically wrong, of course, but enough to fidget him. Might not
this ... this--he himself called it "want of tone"--be a reason for the
scant pleasure he got out of life? And: "I think I'll pop down and see
Dr. Munce about him one morning, without a word to him," was how she
eased her mind and wound up her reverie.

But daylight, and the most prosaic hours of the twenty-four, made the
plan look absurd.

Once alive though to his condition, she felt deeply sorry for him in
his patent inability ever to be content. It was a thousand pities.
Things might have run so smoothly for him, he have got so much
satisfaction out of them, if only he could have braced himself to
regard life in cheerier fashion. But at this Mary stopped ... and
wondered ... and wondered. Was that really true? Positively her
experiences of late led her to believe that Richard would be less happy
still if he had nothing to be unhappy about.--But dear me! this was
getting out of her depth altogether. She shook her head and rebuked
herself for growing fanciful.

All the same, her new glimpse of his inmost nature made her doubly
tender of thwarting him; hence, she did not set her face as firmly as
she might otherwise have done, against a wild plan he now formed of
again altering, or indeed rebuilding the house; although she could
scarcely t